The Poison Diaries. Maryrose Wood

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      Father lurches into the parlour with his hair standing every which way, as if he had spent hours running his hands through it in deep concentration. “I expect no one. And I do not wish to be disturbed, so whoever it is, bid them be gone.”

      “But what if it is the duke?”

      He listens. The hoofbeats are insistent, a hard gallop coming straight this way.

      His face turns grim. “Whoever comes travels alone, and at reckless speed. It is not the duke, but it might be a highwayman. Stand back from the door, Jessamine.”

      Father grabs his gun from the wooden box on the floor beside the entrance to the cottage, and unbolts the heavy arched wooden door.

      He steps out into the courtyard. I am frightened, but my curiosity is greater than my fear, and I follow. We emerge just in time to see our visitor gallop up and pull his horse to an abrupt stop directly in front of our door, raising a choking cloud of dust.

      The horse has been ridden too hard for too long; its mouth drips foam, and its neck and flanks are flecked with sweat. It whinnies and rears high in complaint at the brutal pull on the reins. The rider curses and yanks the horse’s head hard around.

      I sneak closer behind Father so I can get a glimpse of our uninvited guest. He is a long-limbed, pock-faced man. Lashed to the saddle behind him is a large, shapeless bundle wrapped in a threadbare blanket and tied around with rope.

      The man slips off the horse’s back and lands heavily on the ground. “Thomas Luxton?” he barks. “The apothecary?”

      “I am he.” Behind his back, Father’s hand tightens on the gun.

      “May I speak to you, sir?”

      “You already have, sir.” Father seems to double in size until he fills the doorway. “What is your business? You arrive like a fire wagon racing to put out a blaze. But as you can see –” Father gestures in such a way as to reveal his weapon – “we have no need of assistance.”

      At the sight of the gun, the man steps back. Then he sees me hiding behind Father. For a split second our eyes meet. I know mine are filled with fear.

      He sighs and stamps the mud off his boots, then reaches up to remove his three-cornered hat. He wears a wig, as is the fashion, but when he takes off the hat he knocks his wig slightly askew. Suddenly I am no longer afraid, for how can one be afraid of a man in a crooked wig?

      “Forgive me,” he says gruffly. “There is no need to defend yourself; I mean you no harm. My name is Tobias Pratt. I am sorry to disturb you and will not stay one moment longer than necessary. But I ask that you let me enter your home briefly, so that you and I may speak – in private.”

      When he says “in private” , I think he must mean out of my hearing, for who else is here but Father and me? But the bundle on the back of Pratt’s horse stirs.

      “Water,” it moans. Whether the voice is young or old, male or female, I cannot say.

      “Shut your mouth, boy. You’ve had plenty of water today.” Pratt turns back to Father. “What I have to say will be of interest to you, Luxton, I swear it. Will you hear me out?”

      Father says nothing, but stares at the pitiful, rag-swaddled creature on the horse.

      “Water,” it moans again, but this time quite low and sad, as if it has no hope of being heard.

      I would fetch the creature some water; what harm could there be in that? I am about to ask permission to do so when Father speaks.

      “As you wish,” he says abruptly. “Come inside and say what you have to say. The sooner you are gone, the sooner I can get back to my work.”

      “Father, ought I to get some water for…?” I nod my head in the direction of the horse and its strange burden.

      “Leave the monster be for now,” Pratt interjects. “After you hear my tale, you may do with it what you will.”

      

      “Tobias Pratt – your name is familiar to me; why is that?” Father and our visitor are seated at the table. I have already made the tea. Quickly and silently I put some biscuits on a dish, and stand aside to listen.

      “I am the founder and proprietor of Pratt’s Convalescent Home,” Pratt says proudly as he shoves two biscuits at once into his mouth. “I imagine you’ve heard of it. It is a respected establishment here in the north.”

      “Indeed I have.” Father waves away my offer of tea, so I pour a cup for Pratt and take my seat in the shadows. “You run a madhouse in the countryside, a few miles west of Haydon Bridge, do you not?”

      Pratt shrugs. “Call it a madhouse if you will; I prefer to think of it as a safe and comfortable refuge for the mentally unhinged. Pratt’s Home has always been a well-run institution and, if I may say, a profitable business too. We take all comers, as long as their families can pay: lunatics, melancholics, would-be poets who’ve addled their brains with laudanum. We’ve seen quite a lot of that type lately, in fact.”

      Pratt forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. One of his two front teeth is missing; the other is rotten and black, and the stink of his breath reaches even to where I sit, on my small stool near the fire. He pushes back his chair and stretches out his spindly legs. “So you see, you and I are both medical men, after a fashion, Luxton.”

      The disgust on Father’s face is impossible to miss. “I consider myself a plantsman, first and foremost. And you sound more like a banker than a healer, frankly. But now I know who you are, and how you earn your keep. So I ask you again: what brings you to my door, Mr Pratt?”

      “I have a story to tell you.” Pratt drains his tea and puts the cup down with so much force it rattles the dishes. “And a gift for you as well – although you may not want it, after you hear what I have to say.”

      A thin blue vein throbs in a crooked line down the centre of Father’s forehead. “A gift I may not want?” he says coldly. “You are trying to intrigue me, Pratt. That alone is enough to make me show you the door, for I dislike being played with. If you have something to say, say it, and make sure it’s the plain truth while you’re at it. I have no patience for elaboration.”

      For a moment Pratt looks as if he would try to argue; to his credit he thinks better of it. “Have it your way, Luxton. The plain truth it shall be. My tale is about a boy. A foundling boy, an orphan, no doubt. He’s a strange, half-grown lad. I don’t know how old; at a glance I’d say about as old as your daughter here – this is your daughter, is it not?” He jerks a thumb in my direction. “She’s a bit young to be a wife, to my way of thinking, but to each his own.”

      I feel my cheeks redden. “The girl is no part of your tale; leave her out of it, if you please,” Father says harshly.

      Pratt lifts his hands in apology and continues. “I meant no offence. This boy I speak of – he came to live with me nearly two months ago. Before that he’d been raised by a local friar; before the friar, God only knows where he was whelped. He’s not much to look at, a skittish, wild-eyed sort of waif. You know the type: flinches when you speak to him, never lifts his eyes from his shoes, a body so thin a strong wind could snap him in two like a dead branch.”

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